


such selfish prayers

by carrythesky



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied sexy times, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7846267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Devil and the Sky.</p><p>(Can one ever really touch the other?)</p><p>-----</p><p>Mattelektra drabbles. Mostly hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I got sinnin' on my mind

It was bound to happen, eventually.

 

She stumbles in just after two a.m., wrenching him from a dreamless sleep. Her breathing is heavy and the tang of blood splits the air, but she’s upright, talking.

 

“Assholes tore a hole in my favorite dress,” she mutters as she limps towards the bathroom. The cut on her leg isn’t deep enough to warrant stitches, but her breath still hisses between her teeth as she rifles beneath the sink for his medical supplies.

 

“Eventful night?” he asks, leaning against the bathroom doorway.

 

“Mmm,” she says nonchalantly, and he hears the familiar sound of gauze tearing. “I’ve had better.”

 

He tilts his head. She sounds like herself, but there’s a slight edge to her voice, and her pulse is like thunder in his ears, wild and erratic. He kneels beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She’s trembling.

 

“Let me,” he says softly, taking the gauze from her and pressing it gently to her leg.

 

She tenses beneath his touch but remains still. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she says. “I just-” her voice cuts off, and he knows better than to pry. They stay silent for a few moments, crouched together on his bathroom floor, and some distant part of himself wonders if this is how they are meant to exist - bleeding, broken, unable to find the words they need. It feels like half a lifetime has passed since she came back into his life, but nothing has changed. She’s still a girl who has always liked the fresh air, and he’s a boy who hasn’t been further north than 116th. The Devil and the Sky.

 

(Can one really ever touch the other?)

 

“The nights are the worst,” she finally says. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing that rooftop. Feeling that blade sink into me, reliving the moment I took my last breath.”

 

Keeping one hand on her leg, he reaches for the medical tape, tearing a piece off with his teeth and adhering the gauze to her wound. His palms linger on her skin, and he lifts his eyes to hers. His world is burning, everything swirling fire, and her face sparks the brightest. Something aches within his chest. “You can stay here, however long you need to,” he says. “I’ll take the couch. Bed’s too big for me, anyways.”

 

“Noble Matthew,” she laughs, and he starts to stand, but her fingers snag in his. Her touch is electric.

 

(He always knew she was a storm.)

 

 _Elektra_ , his body thrums, and then his hand is at the base of her neck, pulling her towards him. His mind is blissfully quiet as he kisses her, devouring the soft sound she makes with a hum of his own. His fingers are soon lost in an ocean of hair, the pads of his thumbs skimming along her cheekbones, and not for the first time, he revels in the dichotomy of sensations that comprise Elektra Natchios. Sharp angles, soft lips. Steady breathing, ragged pulse.

 

Dead, in his arms. Alive.

 

_Alive._

 

Something swells within him, and he presses his mouth more fervently against hers, standing and lifting her in one swift motion so that she’s sitting on the counter. He can feel every point of contact between their bodies; her legs wrapped around him, the curve of her chest as she arches upwards, their lips merging as they trade kisses like punches.

 

Hands snaking in his hair, wrenching his face back.

 

“Matthew.” It’s not a plea. It’s an order.

 

He smiles, sinking to his knees. His hands skate up her calves, her thighs, pulling the folds of her dress aside as he slides her hips towards the edge of the counter. She sighs as his mouth find its mark, her nails digging, threading over his scalp. The scent of her is everywhere - in his lungs, his bloodstream, enveloping and disorienting. His tongue flicks and his teeth graze, and the world blurs as her gasps become cries.

 

 _Elektra elektra elektra_ his mind sings.

 

\-----

 

“You could stay,” he says later, limbs entwined with hers. “Permanently, I mean. If you want.”

 

She smiles, lips curving against his forehead. “I’m disappointed, Matthew. Asking a girl to move in the morning after sleeping with her…it’s just tacky.”

 

He laughs, arms tightening around her. “I’m a lawyer. We’re tacky by definition.”

 

“Hmm.” Her mouth hovers against his, and it’s all he can do to remember how to breathe. “In that case, I plead the fifth.”

 

“That’s not how it works-” he starts to retort, but then she’s rolling on top of him, kissing him fiercely. There’s not much left to discuss after that.


	2. looking for heaven, found the devil in me

Most nights, he’s content with playing the Devil, pulling on the mask and bloodying his fists to be the man the city needs. There are moments when he wavers, pulled out of orbit by foreign objects more powerful than he is ( _a kingpin, a punisher_ ), but he is always able to find himself again, stay on course.

 

(Most nights, his soul can shoulder the weight of his sins.)

 

Tonight, though, he’s a boy again, running down a dark alley towards his father’s broken body as the world collapses around him. It’s this image that burns behind his eyes as he perches on the rooftop, curled in on himself and reeling from a nightmare that felt more like a memory.

 

A scrape of metal, the whisper of bare feet treading towards him, and then -

 

Slender arms encircle his shoulders and fingertips brush his cheeks, tracing the salty tracks his tears left behind. Her heartbeat is rhythmic and steady against her ribcage, and he aligns his breath with it, grounding himself.

 

“Your eyes are red,” she says.

 

“Observant,” he quips back, instantly regretting it, but she just laughs.

 

“You’re a bit of an ass when you’re upset, you know that?” she says, and he can hear the smirk in her voice. Her hands move to cradle his face, deceivingly gentle. He knows how many men have broken apart beneath these fingers.

 

“I’ve been told,” he whispers, turning his face, pressing his lips to her wrist.

 

“Bad dream?” she asks, stroking the curve of his chin with her thumb. He lets his face fall, eyes shuddering closed as a kaleidoscope of broken images crashes against his mind. Flickering yellow light from a streetlamp, rain glinting off the asphalt, mixing with blood until it looks less like a crime scene and more like a watercolor painting, a body, face-down, silent and statue-still…

 

“My dad,” is all he can say as he clenches his jaw and buries his head in his hands. He hasn’t felt grief like this for Jack Murdock in a long time - trembling, he gives in to it, allows himself to be consumed as waves of anguish break over him again and again. His face feels swollen and heavy, his eyes stinging with a sharp pressure, and with a stuttered sigh, he lets his grief spill. Dimly, he is aware of her pulling him towards her, and he folds into her, chest heaving as he sobs into the crook of her neck. Her arms cinch tight around him, rubbing his shoulders and tracing gentle patterns against his scalp. Lips drift across his forehead, feather-light.

 

“I’m here, Matthew,” she whispers, breath warm. “You’re not alone.”

 

They stay like this, one broken soul clinging to the other, until the sun spills over the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles taken from:
> 
> [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqGRJZFpkfc)
> 
>  [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIJHg1XWR7o)
> 
>  and
> 
>  [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs)


End file.
